Undefined Parameters
by Quirk'd
Summary: A collection of Nika/47 oneshots, movieverse. The moments that we never saw.
1. Abduction

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Hitman. Do people *have* to rub it in?**

**A/N: This is the first of a succession of oneshots focusing on Nika/47 inside the movie. The entire future collection is dedicated to breadandchoc – words cannot describe her talent, kindness and generosity. I owe so much to her: I thank her from the bottom of my heart. But enough of this talking… on with the show!**

*** Abduction (or The Penguin Seconds)

***

Nika Boronia lay panting in the darkness, her voice hoarse from shouting obscenities at her kidnapper. The gutter language hadn't had any affect on him (could he even _hear_ her from this godforsaken trunk?) but she hadn't exactly expected him to just let her go after a few choice words in Russian. He hadn't given the impression of being that kind of guy. And after being Bellicroft's whore for so long, she'd gotten into the habit of reading men: the ass-men, the breast-men, the hitters, the biters, the impotent. Hell, everyone has a hobby: hers was figuring out what men wanted to do to her. Fuck her, beat the shit out of her, kill her, whatever. In her head, she often referred to it as her special form of woman's intuition. Hardey-har-har. Tres funny, huh.

The many intentions of the male species… for instance, the gentleman so generously sharing the Audi's trunk with her. She knew he wasn't gonna do anything anytime soon. But that was because her current trunk mate, in his cheap two-piece suit and bad cologne and oh-so-professional haircut, was indisputably and unequivocally dead.

_(don't think about that one too much, Nika)_

She drew in a shaky breath, and closed her eyes. She _wanted_ not to think about the dead guy, she really did. Less about death as a fucking topic at all, in fact. A break from all matters lethal and fatal would be fun. However, not-thinking things was difficult… especially since she was sharing a car with a corpse and (well, she could only assume) a hired killer. Counting to ten wasn't exactly going to cut it this time.

She wondered if hysteria was a symptom of shock. Maybe it was just her way of dealing with things.

For an unknowable space of time – it's funny how quickly one can lose track when one's busy getting abducted – she was content to watch the strange patterns under her eyelids. The hypnotic movement of blood in the tiny vessels, lazy and sleepy, was surprisingly soothing. And the calming motion of the moving car – never mind where it was moving _to_; that helped as well. Her heartbeat slowed from full-out gallop to a trot, and from a trot to a weary walk. She listened to its reassuring thuds for a while, and tried very hard not to think. Eventually her focus strayed to the rest of her body – her thoroughly hung-over, bruised and aching body.

Well, she couldn't honestly blame the hangover on the situation at hand. Her vodka nights had been getting more common as the months went on, just as Bellicroft's visits had increased in their frequency and…intensity.

_(another thing let's not think about, whaddaya say?)_

Nevertheless, Nika felt she could confidently blame Mr Bald and Dangerous for all the bruising and aching. He'd slammed her into a wall, for fuck's sake; frightened her out of her goddamned mind – well, she was _still_ frightened out of her goddamned mind, but that was besides the point. He'd slammed her against the wall of her own hotel room. _And_ practically dragged her out of the building. _And_ forced her into a where she was now: a confined, pitch-black and all-too-occupied trunk. Which brought her full-circle, funnily enough.

Her scattered thoughts were interrupted when the car stopped.

She heard the car door opening, the sound of shoes on pavement, and the door slamming shut. Her body – in outright defiance of its tiredness and multiple bruises – tensed in readiness, and she tasted the metallic tang of adrenaline flood her mouth again. The infamous fight or flight mechanism: her body, getting ready to do what it had to. But her mind had a better idea.

When he opened the boot, she was ready.

She lay there, curled up in the confines of the trunk, quiet as a mouse and looking up at him with teary eyes.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered, vulnerability plain in her wobbling tone. If pretending to be an obedient, frightened hostage was going to get her out of this crap sooner, then by God she'd play the victim.

Her kidnapper didn't answer her, just grabbed one arm and pulled her out of the trunk. Her stomach lurched: he was so fucking _strong_; his hand was like a vice. He was able to practically lift her out of the car with no apparent effort, no grunt of exertion or small exhale of breath.

Once her heels touched the concrete, she paused in her Poor Miss Hostage act and looked at him properly. Smooth-shaven head, white shirt, red tie, black suit. In the hotel, everything had been a blur and she hadn't really thought of his features… her mind had been buzzing with thoughts of murder and pain at the time.

The parking lot light above them flickered – she couldn't properly see his face, just the glint of watchful eyes.

All of these details were taken in and processed extremely quickly – every sense was in hyperdrive, her sight and hearing pumped up on some chemical brew her body saw fit to equip her with for survival. She watched him from beneath her lashes, and waited as the seconds stretched by.

When he moved forward to close the trunk of the car, she saw the opportunity. And she took it.

Nika ran.

Well, _started_ to run.

That is, before a hand shot out of the dark and caught hold of one wrist, jerking her backwards. Her arm protested against more ill treatment, the whiplash slamming her violently into something hard and solid and… warm. The mix of gunpowder, metal and some unusual cologne prickled in her nose.

Then, just as suddenly as she'd been brought into it, she was pushed roughly out of the warmth and into the cold night air.

She blinked, panting and flushed, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Confusion, realisation, and fear raced through her mind.

_(damnit)_

He just stood there. Still and silent.

_(damnit damnit damnit)_

"Don't try that again," he said quietly, his eyes slightly narrowed and never leaving her face. "I need you alive."

She guessed she was supposed to feel relief. It didn't come. After a certain amount of time in a certain kind of company, she'd learnt there are so many things worse than dying.

Her eyes flickered up to his, and something in those shadowy depths made her look away. Her form of woman's intuition told her that her vulnerable act wasn't going to work. He wasn't buying it.

"Don't try that again," he repeated quietly.

"I won't."

No, she wouldn't try to escape again. Not for a while, at least. Because this man was dangerous in a way she hadn't, in all her _(intense)_ experiences with men, encountered before.

***

When they reached the motel room – him always walking slightly too close to her, always prepared for another ill-conceived escape attempt – he ordered her to sit on the chair in the middle.

Of course she obeyed. She was frightened. Genuinely, sincerely shit scared.

Not that this stranger would kill her, oh no. The normal oh-my-god-please-I-don't-wanna-die fear aside, she'd come to grips with the probability of a violent death a couple years ago – sometime between the first gang rape and the first flogging. She wasn't scared of death that much: there were moments she'd even welcomed it. Looked forward to it. Damn near _embraced_ the prospect.

What Nika Boronia _was_ scared of was Mikhail Bellicroft, standing in the centre of an abandoned hotel suite. Her absence discovered. Him driving calmly back to his underground quarters and taking out a case from the hidden compartment in his bedroom, removing from it a thin object. The image of his hands slowly and lovingly twisting and untwisting the black leather of that fucking riding crop was foremost in her mind.

That image

_(a promise of pain and humiliation and filth that won't ever wash away)_

had followed her shadow-like up the dingy stairs, through the deserted corridors, into the cheap motel room that she sat in right now. The thought of Bellicroft with his favourite instrument of abuse in his hands was far more terrifying than that of the hitman standing before the window, calmly rechecking his ammo.

In a crazy way, the present was a lot better than the past. And in an even crazier way, the future – despite its likelihood of painful death – seemed not so bad in comparison. If you wanted to be philosophical about it. Which she didn't.

The harsh truths about her life up to this point couldn't stop the burning feeling behind her eyes, nor the ache in her throat. But it stopped her from begging for her life. And that was something. That mattered.

***

FIN

***

**A/N: Whew! Not sure what I think of it… I'd planned something more romantic and elegant. And this *definitely* didn't turn out how I planned. But hey, what does? Anyway, there will be more oneshots to come… all featuring Nika and 47, but of course.**

**Once again, I'm dedicating this to the amazing breadandchoc: if anyone liked this *crosses fingers* then you will DEFINITELY like her masterpieces ('Ten Steps to Capturing a Hitman', 'The Courtship of Nika Boronia' and 'Interlude.') I can't say enough good things about this heinously talented writer: she must be read to be believed. Her writing is an art form.**

**As always, reviews = oxygen. Coz reviews don't make my world go 'round: they make it spin :) **

Q 


	2. Awake

**Disclaimer: Of course I own Hitman. That's the reason I write fanfic. *eyeroll***

**A/N: Second oneshot in the collection. You could call this one a sort-of sequel to "Waking Up" but it can be read on its own. 47 POV. As always, this is dedicated to breadanchoc the Magnificent. Enjoy!**

***

Awake (or Waking Up, Part 47)

***

47 walked up the hotel stairs expecting the worst.

She must've woken up by now. She would undoubtedly make a scene, and her emotional tantrums tired him at the best of times.

This was not the best of times.

In the School – a lifetime ago – he, and others like him, had been trained in mental objectivity. They were taught to recognize elements of a situation, analyse these elements, and come to a logical conclusion… without any irrational variables being introduced. A disciplined mind was considered equally essential as a disciplined body.

Detachment was crucial to survival in his profession. Detachment was how 47 knew he'd been emotionally compromised. Consistently so, in fact. There could be no denying that emotions had interfered with his methods and actions.

This was unacceptable. Intolerable. And extremely dangerous to the both of them.

Agent 47 continued climbing the stairs. The imperceptible tension in his jaw and shoulders were the only indications of anger: not directed at the woman in Room 23, but directed more towards himself.

The indisputable fact that emotions were interfering with his tasks had come to him as he'd walked away from what once was Udre's den. Because there had been no logical _reason_ for the violence that had occurred there: the meeting, the gunfight, the explosions… all of this had been so unnecessary. And not at all according to plan.

It would have been so simple to kill Udre as he'd walked to his car. So simple. Then the drug-trafficker would be safely dead, the funeral safely underway, and every carefully laid piece would've safely fallen into place. Bellicroft would've been assassinated in the church tower and the debacle of the Russian Mission completed and filed away. 47 would've been in the clear – able to continue doing what he did best – with this particularly troublesome assignment safely behind him.

That had been the original plan: no contact, no evidence, no unnecessary time or energy wasted.

But then Nika Boronia had gotten involved. Or rather, _he'd_ involved _her_. Nika, with her eyes and her words and that small undeniable tattoo on one cheek. Nika, with her broken innocence and incomprehensible trust. Nika, with her confusing expectations.

Because of this new element into his otherwise-perfected routine, his plans had changed slightly. And this slight change had snowballed into its final climatic end: Udre, safely dead but in the most unprofessional way.

The thought of taking Nika somewhere for any other reason than cover – this thought had not crossed his mind. Rather, it had simply presented itself inside his mind as a familiarly detached line of reasoning: didn't it make _sense_ for her to be satisfied? Wouldn't her happiness deter her endless questions, wouldn't pleasure make her more acquiescent to his orders? More compliant to the necessary steps that the mission required? And it wasn't as if taking her to a restaurant would endanger the inevitable conclusion of the mission… rather, if he made some alterations to a few details of the plan, he could actually insure a speedier outcome.

That was how it had started: the jeopardising of the assignment, and by association, himself.

47 reached the floor of his destination. His footsteps were sure and certain: he'd automatically memorised the twists and turns that led to the room when they'd arrived. His mind, however, was elsewhere. This elsewhere included wine, red silk and warm skin under his hands.

Every lesson learnt in his training forbade him to dwell too long on what had happened after the restaurant. So he didn't: he would only coldly acknowledge the – incident – as yet another element that had led to Udre Bellicroft's assassination.

The emotional interlude with Nika had caused… an influence, on both his behaviour and on his reasoning. Because he'd made not just one mistake in Udre's lair, but many. Many mistakes.

He could've easily lured Mikhail Bellicroft's younger brother away, killed him privately. But he hadn't. He could've dismissed the meeting entirely, waited for a better – more risk-free – opportunity to assassinate his target. But he hadn't. Looking back, he realised these things couldn't compare to the worst mistake of all: he had knowingly, and in full awareness of the fact, goaded Udre. Taunted him. Practically begged a man, already high on narcotics and power and stupidity, to react. Which the bearded Russian had, in explosive fashion.

47 stood before Room 23. The smell of gunpowder and explosive was heavy in his nose; a powerful reminder of his misjudgement. No, misjudgement was too generous a word: failure. Of course he hadn't failed to kill Udre, but he _had_ failed to stay objective and detached. This failure was weakness, and weaknesses in his world were unfulfilled death sentences.

He took a moment to collect himself again, and to prepare: Nika's reaction to her unexpected sedation was not likely to be a calm or sensible reaction. Frankly, he did not have the energy to fight with her. The mental, physical and emotional trials of the day had left him weary to his core.

So when he opened the door to darkness and silence, 47 felt a momentary flicker of gratitude. Later, he would tell himself that it was this fleeting feeling that caused him to walk into the bedroom and watch Nika pretend to sleep.

She did so quite convincingly; deep breathing, relaxed posture, sheets in disarray. If it had been anyone else, it would've worked.

He stepped forward and sat on the bed. Exhaustion was dancing on the edges of his consciousness – he really needed sleep. Or rest, at least: neither of them could afford for his reflexes to be slower in the days and events to come. He loosened his tie, listening to her slightly too-deep breaths behind him.

Sometimes – most of the time – Nika's motives were too complex and foreign for him to interpret, such as why she'd stopped him killing that FBI agent…

_(and why had he _let_ her stop him?)_

Or why she found the prospect of eating with a killer pleasing…

_(and why did he _want_ her to find it pleasing?)_

Or why she wore no underwear in his company…

_(and why did he always notice?)_

Or why she was pretending to sleep right now…

_(and why did he care so much?)_

Her motives – and his own, much that he disliked admitting it – were beyond him. He'd learnt to let such things be; Nika was Nika, unexplainable and emotional. Why he left such mysteries unsolved, he did not know.

Suddenly, he was aware of the cold temperature of the room: the window was open. And Nika was in the path of the breeze. And she was – he felt no surprise – naked.

He ignored the strange mix of emotions that these facts caused.

He couldn't _let_ her become ill. Sickness, with the all its inconvenient symptoms, would be contradictory to the completion of the assignment. Her discomfort would be counter-productive.

That is what he told himself.

When he pulled the covers up, he ignored the fresh onslaught of emotion as his fingers brushed against her skin. He laid the covers gently over her exposed skin.

Her breathing was different after he did this: shallower, slightly faster. But he was too tired to analyse the significance of this change – he got up and headed to the bathroom.

The smell of gunpowder and blood would eventually wash away. It always did.

***

FIN

***

**A/N: Was 47 in character, and if not, how so? Writing him was far more difficult than writing Nika… hope I managed okay! This fic came from me wondering during the movie: why did he have to go into Udre's hideout if he only needed him dead, to get Bellicroft to that funeral? Wouldn't a car-bomb or other long distance assassination done the job just as effectively? This fic was my answer to those questions – only speculation, of course.**

If you have any suggestions, comments, criticisms, questions, whatever: feel free to review. Reviews are always welcome :)

**Q**


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